Self-Portrait
by MakeItAGoodOne
Summary: Sherlock believes he knows people inside and out. But when he must get to know those closest to him as someone else, what he finds changes his outlook: about his friends, and maybe even himself. - Johnlock. Sherlock first person, present tense.
1. Chapter One

"You knew this all along?"

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It wasn't important."

Raindrops on the roof. The scent of recently polished wood. _The Study of the Neurologically Challenged. _A coaster with a recently made brown ring: coffee at 3:15pm. He must not have much sleep last night.

"You didn't think the small, but vital fact that Jim Moriarty and Professor Moriarty aren't the same person wasn't _important?"_

I drum my fingers against the smooth leather surface of the armrest. Cool to the touch. No one has sat here in the last 24 hours. Mycroft is really not understanding me. Irritation. Impatience. How do I explain myself more clearly_?_

"Jim was in the way. He was trying to take over. He needed to be stopped. I stopped him."

"And?"

"Isn't a thank you in order?"

A known felon is dead. I am mostly responsible for this action. What more does he want?

"Oh, my _dear_ brother. No, I am not going to thank you for making me use my power to allow you to flawlessly fake your death, only to find out it was a waste of time!"

He is being especially dense this morning. I push my elbows against his desk. Mahogany. What else.

"Don't you get it? Jim Moriarty was the Professor. He was his face, his eyes, his legs. Anytime the prof wanted to go into public, he had his dear little brother do his work for him."

"So basically Jim is to the prof what you are to me?"

"In the sense that Jim was the younger and smarter brother, yes."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. Oculomotor eyelid and eyeball movement. I wonder where eye rolling came from. Possibly some connection to the upward rolling of eyes seen in frightened animals.

"Professor Moriarty never gets his hands dirty. That's why he is a consulting criminal. That was the missing piece. There's no way he'd ever put himself in danger to talk to me. Jim Moriarty, on the other hand, is a bored psychopath. He loves to show off, flaunt his intellect, and throw himself into danger."

"He's sounding more and more like you."

He is like me. Why else would I know precisely what he was to do. It was a complicated chess game. I won.

"The prof knew his brother's nature. He asked Jim to meet with clients and pretend to be him. Jim is fantastic actor, as we know. He spent a good portion of his life pretending to be someone else. Jim began working on his own to try to kill me. He had promised to kill me, and so he believed he owed me. The Professor probably wanted him to try to kill me, I was in his way after all. But Jim made it his personal life goal. And he didn't mind dying in the process. The Professor is much too fond of himself and his position to kill himself."

Mycroft sighs. He drums his pen on his desk. Ballpoint pen from his university: graduation present. I wasn't there.

"You look idiotic."

Of course I do. There's fake blood coating my eyebrows and plastering my hair to my face. What did he expect? I just got back from faking my death.

"Go with Anthea and get cleaned up."

Who's Anthea? Oh, she's probably the girl who just walked in. She was probably standing outside the door, waiting for her name to be mentioned. Mycroft must've texted her. Freshly cut brown hair, black sweater, short black skirt: cares about appearance. Face buried in Blackberry: faked unconcern. Pays more attention to her surroundings than others think. Locket around her neck, faded color: sentiment. Probably a romantic partner or close family member. Rusted edges: hasn't been opened for a while. Something happened between them. She still cares about the person: wears the locket often. Still feels some resentment: doesn't look at the picture.

Rustling behind me, desk area. Mycroft hands a new duffle bag to the girl. She doesn't look up. She slips the straps over her arm and saunters over to the door. She holds it open with her free hand. She stands there, waiting. Presumably for me.

"What's in the bag?"

"You'll see."

Gray cardigan, checkered shirt, and skinny jeans. Pale red mop of curls: well made wig. Gray beret: French? College student? American model? No, definitely French. The thick-rimmed glasses and brown contacts are a nice touch. I look younger. Less intelligent. Seriously, this cardigan is terrible. I look like a scrawny boy.

"I hate cardigans!"

"Stop acting like a spoiled little boy, Sherlock."

"I don't wear cardigans."

"That's the point."

I don't look like myself, that's for sure. I guess I can make do with the disguise. A door opens, click of modestly high heels. Anthea. Her reflection in the mirror would've confirmed that for an ordinary person, I suppose. What looks like a caterpillar is in her hands, alongside the glue. _No. _

"Absolutely_ not._"

"Sherlock–"

"_No. _I'll wear the cardigan. You are _not_ putting a fake mustache on me!"

_I. Hate. Mustaches._

"Alright. But we'll have to get some makeup. You need to be unrecognizable."

Obviously. Mycroft does love to state the obvious. As it is, this disguise is pretty good. Not that I'm admitting that. But would it work for a police officer? Unassuming, yes. Anderson will be _intolerable_. I suppose I'll have to deal with his condescension. He's such a moron. Maybe I can hate him in my alter ego as well. That won't be too obvious. He has to be used to people hating him.

Anthea is pulling some papers out of her leather messenger bag. My forged documents. I was born in France, moved to Oxford at age 13. That would explain the clothes. I have a graduate degree in criminology. My resume is doable. I'll have to act a lot more ordinary than I would prefer. Anthea's voice broke my thoughts.

"Ok, Sherlock. What name do you want?"

Cheveux. Strong, very French name. My father is French, my mum is English. I guess I should have an English name. William? I could simply go with my given first name. Common enough. _"Hamish_. _John_ _Hamish_ _Watson_. _Just_ _if you_ were _looking for baby names." _John.

"Hamish William Cheveux."

I turn back to the mirror. Mycroft is giving me a weird look. Understanding? Sympathy? He must know John's middle name. He's Mycroft after all.

"Ok, we're sending you to France. Any accent will be explained by the time at Oxford. We have some field work that needs done there and-"

"No. I'm staying here. For now, anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's too many loose ends here. Moriarty's whole criminal network, my innocence, not to mention the Professor."

I can't leave. My work is here. I have so much left to finish. My innocence needs to be restored. Moriarty's ring. I love this city. I have a flat here. And...

"Absolutely not. Too dangerous! You could be recognized."

_"Could be dangerous." _John. That's something we have in common. An addiction to danger. The thrill of not knowing what will happen next. Flushed faces, pounding steps, minds working overtime. The adrenaline pumping through our veins. Our.

"You need me."

Mycroft stares at me. He is weighing the pros and cons. Does he care enough about his little brother's safety to keep him from ensuring the nation's security?

"Alright, but be careful."

Apparently not.

**{ A/N: Please review. I absolutely love constructive criticism! I'd love any tips you have for me to make this better! }**


	2. Chapter Two

"Hello, Inspector Cheveux. My name is Colin Ellery."

Tall man, early 40's. Deep set wrinkles around his eyes: worries a lot. His left eye is slightly weaker. Firm lips: calloused, pessimistic. Steel gray hair, tousled and soft: brand name shampoo. Completely spotless gray suit: vaguely OCD. Pale blue dress shirt, top button unbuttoned: comfortably aware of his physical attractiveness. Versace Pour Homme cologne and Talbot wine: wealthy. Slight muscle twitch in left arm: recently went through a stressful incident. Death in the family? No, he's too well mannered to drink a $300 bottle of wine so soon after a relative's death. Fight with a spouse? Possibly. More likely a recent near-death experience. Probably related to a case.

"What happened?"

He turns, holding the cab door open for me. Someone recently had sex in here.

"Excuse me?"

"Your near-death experience. What happened?"

He's slightly nervous, but trying to hide it. He was probably warned about me. The cabbie is giving me a confused look through the mirror.

"I'm sorry, how did you..."

He's trailing off, probably unsure of whether or not to tell me. He's a bit narcissistic, though. He will.

"I got injured on a case involving..."

I don't really care. I tune him out. I have work to do.

_Creak. _The door to my mind palace opens and I step in. Ok, let's see, the room full of information about Moriarty. Ah yes, here it is. Diploma on the right hand wall: Professor. I know that well enough. Next, a bookcase. Let's see, books: _Carl Powers, The Great Game, Shared Boredom, Consultant Criminal, Clean Hands, Underwear, Burning Hearts, Stayin' Alive, Irene Adler.. _Oh!

"Inspector Cheveux?"

My mind palace shatters. Ellery is holding the cab door open and staring at me. It's a good look for him. The cabbie is German, has three kids, and smells like cigarettes, sweat, and Old Spice. (Unimportant: delete) We're at Scotland Yard. Familiarity. Cheveux is talking to the receptionist. I wonder if she still doesn't know her husband is cheating on her. She motions the way to Lestrade's office.

26 cubicles. It's a bit chilly in here. Too bad I can't wear my old coat. _"Turning up your coat collar so you look cool." _John.

I don't do that!

"Lestrade, this is Detective Inspector Hamish Cheveux. Mr. Cheveux, this is DI Lestrade."

"Pleased to meet you"

What's his first name again? Gavin? George? Oh, who cares.

"Likewise."

Ellery is handing over my papers. I wonder what Lestrade thinks about Hamish Cheveux. What do I look like to him? Young, inexperienced, shy. What is going on in that splendidly dull brain? He's unimpressed, that's for sure.

"Inspector Cheveux will be in your division. He's specialist chosen to pursue the Holmes/Moriarty case. You'll find all his necessary files here. Now, if there's nothing else, I really have to be going. A pleasure, as always, Lestrade. Cheveux."

Lestrade won't comprehend much from those tedious files he's pouring over. I'm a Detective Inspector from Birmingham. Probably won't bother checking to see if that's true. He has orders from above to take me. What's in his eyes? Resentment? Probably doesn't like an equal being given his case. If only he knew we were not equal. At least not in intellectual prowess.

"Alright, Mr. Cheveux, everything seems to be in order. The office next door has been cleared out for you temporarily. I hope you find it satisfactory. Now, if you don't mind, I have some work to get to. Donovan will be in soon to give you the necessary details. Good day."

Overly formal speech, loss of respectful title, barely veiled sarcasm. Definitely resentment.

"Thank you."

That's what people say, I think. Who cares. Lestrade's noncommittal nod means I can leave. The office is small, but I don't need vast amounts of space. Nice desk and comfortable chair though. I suppose that box on the desk is my personal affects. Personal in the loosest sense of the word. Mycroft's idea, obviously. Dent in the corner, scratch on the top. Accidental, not malicious. Inside the box: Oxford diploma, 40x-2500x Biological Microscope, 10MP camera, Macbook Pro laptop, elephant figurine, iPhone, and empty picture frame. _"Photograph someone and put their picture in here. You need to not be a sociopath."_ Thanks for the sticky note, Mycroft.

"Inspector Cheveux?"

Donovan is looking as dull-witted as usual.

"The same. I'm assuming you're Donovan?"

"Yes, that's me. I heard you're here about the Holmes/Moriarty case. I'll give you a hint: It's not as complicated as some are making it out to be. Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath, pure and simple."

_High-functioning sociopath!_ Does no one understand the difference?

"Leave the case files on the desk, please."

She's staring at me. Am I being rude? Well, I can hardly be blamed, being called a psychopath on my first day at work. She'll get over it. The door did not need to be shut so firmly. I guess I should be nicer. I'm just not in the mood for acting today. Good, some peace and quiet. I can get back to my mind palace.

_Creak. _The door to my mind palace opens and I step in. Why did I put so many stairs in here? Here's my Moriarty room. Morbid place. Book shelf: _Irene Adler. _Book opens: _"Hello? Yes, of course it is, what do you want?" "Say that again! Say that again and know if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you!" _Irene Adler was working for Jim Moriarty, in a way. She had his number, not the Professor's. I wonder - _"That was amazing!...It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary." _John. What are you doing here? No, leave, you're breaking my concentration. Don't look like that, John, you know what I mean! I'm going crazy, I need to get out of here.

I open my eyes. The light is bright, but that's because my pupils are dilated. Why is Anderson staring at me through the glass?

"If you have something to say, come in and say it."

Anderson looks embarrassed. I guess that wasn't what he expected me to say. What would he expect me to say? I guess something sentimental about being glad to meet him. But I'm not glad to meet him. Isn't honesty a virtue upheld by ordinary people? I don't think I'll ever understand them.

"Hello, I'm, uh, I'm sorry I was staring. I just, was wondering if you were ok."

"Why?"

"You were standing there with your eyes shut. I guess, well, you're probably tired. I don't want to bother you. I just came to say introduce myself."

What an idiot.

"Well, then say what you came to say."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm Philip Anderson. I'm a member of the forensics team."

"If you're in forensics, than what are you doing here?"

"To meet you, of course!"

Why would he want to meet me? Is this a normal social gesture?

"Oh?"

"Well, I was a personal...I mean, I knew Sherlock personally. I just, I thought maybe I could help you with the case in some way. I mean, if you need any personal accounts of the man."

"I think I have everything under control for now. If I need anything, I'll be sure to let you know."

"Right. Well, I'll be off then. Good to meet you Mr..."

"You know my name."

"Of course. Good to meet you Mr. Cheveux."

I really dislike that man.


	3. Chapter Three

448 Allsop Place. A street over from Baker St. The door is worn around the edges: slammed many times. Scratches around the doorknob: drunk.

"Hello, Mr. Cheveux! I admit, I was a bit surprised that you would rent without seeing it first, but I'm happy to get a tenant."

"Hamish."

"I'm sorry?"

"Call me Hamish."

"Right, of course. Well, I'm Marge, then. The flat is a bit small, but great for a single guy. You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"

Why does everyone assume I'd want a girlfriend?

"Not really my area."

"Oh. Okay. Well, there's only one bedroom anyway, and the kitchen is small. But very serviceable. The utilities are a part of the bill. I hope you like the furniture, as it came furnished."

"I know, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Great! Well, have a look around. I live in the flat next door if you need anything."

"Some tea would be great."

"Well, there's a faucet and a stove. Have a nice day."

I wish Mrs. Hudson was here. Not for any silly sentimental reason, of course. She just made great flat is dark, shabby, worn down. Wallpaper peeling near the ceiling. Sofa the same red as John's ridiculous Christmas jumper. Someone sat in the left corner of that sofa and put their size 10 boots on the extremely scratched coffee table. The orange shag carpet is repulsive. Five boxes in the corner: delivered at 8:00 this morning. I suppose I should unpack what little I have. Mycroft must've gotten my things from 221B and sent them here. Where's my skull? I'm going to have to have a chat with my insufferable brother. He probably found my cigarettes too. Well, I can always get another pack, while that skull was irreplaceable. What is that annoying sound? Oh, a text from Lestrade.

_"Could you come down to the station? We have new information."_

Finally, something to do!

"Donovan would kick me for saying this, but I think Sherlock was framed."

Lestrade is sitting at his cluttered desk. His feet are planted on the ground, which is unusual. He's not comfortable. His eyes are animated and motioning with his hands: excitement. Eyebrows furrow: confusion. He dresses well.

"Why?"

"He couldn't have faked that much. He couldn't have fooled us to that degree. I worked with him personally, and I know he was brilliant, possibly brilliant enough to not have to fake it."

"Could that conclusion be based in sentiment?"

"Initially, I thought so. The man was a bloody fool, but I did care about him a great deal. Which is why I thought it was my affection for him that made me think he was innocent. But as I review the cases he solved, I'm beginning to think it wasn't affection. There were many cases he inexplicably solved with what seemed like zero evidence, but every time, he had a plausible explanation."

"He could've planned it that way."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Call it intuition. Regardless, I'd like you to interview some of the people who knew him best. Here's some names and addresses. Let me know what you come up with."

Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, _John._ I should've known. My disguise is well done though, and it's close enough that their emotions could cloud any reasoning capabilities. I can pull this off. Maybe they will actually have useful information. Doubtful, but possible.

"Alright. I'm on it."

Lestrade's feet are back on the desk. He's comfortable. He doesn't seem to resent me as much now. Cared about him. Affection. I thought he despised me. I thought I was a wonderful judge of people. It's sentiment. That's what it is. It always throws me off. Because I'm not capable of it.

He cared about me?


End file.
